Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

The black mass forged on until within two lengths of us. I heard the powerful throbbing of her engine, the tearing hiss and splash from her cut-water, and the churning of the propeller. In an instant more I would hear the crashing of timbers, but as I strained my eyes on the oncoming boat and threw my arm around the girl, ready for the worst, I saw the shadow of a man as he ran from the engine-room to the wheel, and then the tug suddenly swerved and passed us so close that I could have touched her rail! In an instant she had slid by and then I leaped up and shouted like one possessed:

“Come to! Come to, for God’s sake! We are in distress!”

There was a hoarse answer and the vessel sank into the darkness. I thought we were to be abandoned and for an instant felt all the deep hopelessness of a shipwrecked mariner in mid-ocean as he marks the loss of a possible rescue. But presently I saw the green starboard light reappear and knew, when the red light joined it, they were working to return to us. There was the clang of a gong, a quick churning of the reversed wheel, and the tug slowed up close at hand, keeping way gently until it bumped against the sloop and a man leaped from its deck to ours.

“What’s the row here?” he asked.

“We are crippled and adrift,” I answered. “I am no sailor, and there is a lady aboard.”

The girl stood at my side as the man listened to my story, the lividness of dawn in the east just touching his coarse face. His little eyes shifted from her to me incessantly, and when I had finished he gave an irritating laugh, for which I could have knocked him down with a good grace.

“Blowed away, hey!” he said, expectorating over the rail and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “D’ye mean ye hadn’t sense enough to know when a cable’s bent an’ when it’s _on_bent? Wall, ’tain’t no business o’ mine. Want to get aboard o’ us, hey? Yer green, fer a fact, an’ I’ll be frank with ye. If ye leaves the sloop she’ll be derelict, an’ I can pull her in an’ claim salvage. That’s the law. Course I’ll take ye aboard if ye want, but ye had better bide here an’ give me a hundred dollars fer a tow to New Haven. I got a date there an’ can’t do better fer ye.”

“Where are we now?” I asked.

“Sum’ers off the Thimbles.”

I well knew that I was being taken advantage of, but a slight pressure on my arm from the hand of Miss Edith told me it was no time for bargaining, so, after a deal of backing and going ahead, we found ourselves under way behind the tug, I still at the helm to prove that the sloop had not been deserted.

Safe thus far I felt relieved, but, the first difficulty passed, the remaining and greater phase of the situation reasserted itself. For a long time neither the girl nor I spoke, and I fancied her face was more deeply anxious in its expression than I had yet seen it. The light broadened; the shore showed faintly against a clear sky, and the stars grew pale and disappeared. Probably two hours more would get us into harbor, and the subject of our adventure and our probable reception home, even a plan for future movements, had not been touched upon. Something must be said, but in my intense interest my brain went all adrift and my intended delicacy was lost in my first blundering speech.

“You are looking tired, Miss Edith, but your last sleep was more restful than your first.”

It was man-like stupidity. Her face flushed hotly as she turned it away, but presently she looked at me and said:

“It has all been like a terrible dream, now that we are out of danger. It seems days since we left the hotel, and—and—oh! what will papa say—and Aunt Margaret? What will people think?” And she covered her face with her hands.

“The last is not a knotty problem,” I replied gently, though I could not spare her distress. “We will not be overburdened with Christ-like charity, and the result may be hard for you to bear.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, dropping her hands.

“Do you not see?” said I, as with my heart beating rapidly I went boldly to meet my fate. “Do you know so little of the world—of the venom of it? We have done an innocent thing, but, forgive me, will people believe it? Your father will be fiercely angry, society will be skeptical, and—and I would protect you from all scandal; I would bear your father’s anger for you.”

She was rosy now and her lips were half apart, but she did not answer.

“I know I am taking an undue advantage by making such a proposal here, but it is the old force of circumstances which permits me. There is but one way, Edith. Give me the right I would have—the right to protect you! Does not your heart understand my meaning? We could then face the world together and not care. No, that is not all,” I continued as I saw she was about to speak. “God knows that affection lacks proper words to express it! I have been so fearful—that is why I have been dumb so long! To me the gale has been a godsend, not a misfortune. Edith, must I be wrecked at last?”

She had turned away her face, but now she looked at me, not in anger nor amazement. As she fixed her beautiful eyes on mine I saw the tears come into them and overflow, but she made no answer.

“Have I hurt you?” I cried.

“You are generous,” she said; “but are you honest now? Are you sure you wish this? Is it me you really want? You are a man and will not be blamed—and I—well, I can live it down. The fault was mine, not yours. Perhaps you will regret; perhaps it is because you are sorry for me that you offer me your—your protection. Oh! be sure—be sure!”

I do not remember what I said or did then, but I know I had a ready answer for this and urged it so vehemently, becoming oblivious to all else, that the sloop yawed widely and I was called to earth by a shout from the tug to the effect that I had better “mind my eye” and see what in the devil I was about.

It was a strange wooing. Five o’clock in the morning is not a usual hour for inspiration, yet I was never more eloquent. Nor were the chief elements of the little drama picturesque—a woebegone and very much mussed-up young lady with unkempt hair, her figure lost in the folds of a dirty blanket, and a man with the appearance of having been hurriedly starched and rough-dried. But there was a new pink in the cheeks of the one and a new light in the eyes of the other, as Edith, without a word in answer to my pleading, simply placed her soft hand in mine for a moment, then brushing away her tears, ran below.

To the casual observer on the streets of New Haven no doubt we looked somewhat time-worn, but this was partly mended by the milliner and the tailor. I was still as idiotic as a man is likely to be after a heavy stroke of good fortune, and it was when sitting in the hotel where I had just penned the last of a number of telegrams that I turned to the girl for my final triumph.

“Edith, it was only yesterday morning that you scoffed at the force of circumstance and I hinted at a tale I could write that would convince you. But I need not use invention—we have acted a story ourselves. You have been forced to capitulate. Was I not right?”

“No, dear,” she returned softly. “My answer would have been the same had you asked me long ago.”

_Before and After_

WANDERING WILLIE—Why wudn’t yer wanter be a millionaire, pard?

WEARY RAGGLES—What’s de diff’rence? Dose fellers git de dyspepsie an’ hev de distressed feelin’ arter eatin’, ’stead of afore, dat’s all.

* * * * *

_Declined_

TED—It was a case of love at first sight with him.

NED—How was it with the girl?

TED—From the answer she gave him she must have had second sight.

* * * * *

_A Terrible Example_

LATSON—He used to be a newsboy, and now he is in the legislature.

CODWELL—That’s just what you might expect shooting craps would lead to.

* * * * *

Everybody tells you not to worry. The point is: how not to worry. Worry is discontent swathed with timidity. Be brave in your worries by making them protests. At least it helps your circulation.

_An Ideal Cruise in an Ideal Craft_

BY WALLACE IRWIN

It were the good ship _Gentle Jane_
On which we et and slept,
The tightest, safest little craft
As ever sailed, except—

Her cargo it wuz gasolene
And pitch-wood kindling light
And powder fine and turpentine
And tar and dynamite.

Our crew wuz tried and trusty men
As ever sailed the wet,
And so I had full confidence
In their discretion, yet—

The cook _would_ dump hot, glowin’ coals
In that there gasolene,
And them there tars _would_ smoke cigars
In the powder magazine.

“Oh, Cap,” I sez to Capting White
With reverent respect,
“Now couldn’t we in trifles be
A bit more circumspect?”

“Well I’ll be blowed!” the Capting sez
To pass the matter by.
“Unless I’m wrong ere very long
We’ll all be blowed,” sez I.

And as I croke this little joke
The sea got very rough,
The gong went clang! the hull went bang!
Our gallant ship went puff!

A cloud o’ smoke with us on top
A million fathoms lept—
Yet in that muss not one of us
Wuz scratched or hurt, except—

Our gallant Capting lost his head.
Our Mate his limbs and breath,
The soup wuz spilled, our crew wuz killed,
Our cook wuz scared to death.

So often in the stilly night
I long with fond regret
To sail again the _Gentle Jane_
Upon the sea, and yet—

_The Heritage of Maxwell Fair_

BY VINCENT HARPER